Shivers + Yawns = Growth!

Photo courtesy
of Bing Images

I was revisiting my childhood a couple of days ago, prompted by a recent post, Mandala Memories. In that blog, I recalled countless hours spent drawing what I now recognize to be Mandalas - beautiful, intricate wheels of color that seem to exist in many religions around the world. If you're interested in learning more of the fascinating history of these beautiful creations, you'll find some helpful links on the aforementioned blog post. The reason for this blog is to focus on the byproduct of creating something pleasing to the human eye, being mindful of my own reactions to this experience and another that I will relate as I go along in the body of this post.


In the midst of my busy day today, I could feel this inner urge to engage my hands, heart and mind in an artistic application. The childhood past time of drawing Mandalas popped into my mind and I sat down to quickly create one of these designs. By the time I was finished, my heart and Spirit were both lighter and I could tell I had reached a pivotal moment. That exercise of paying attention to that unspoken urge to be creative in a different medium than writing was such a joy! I felt so light and happy inside.

I was taken back to what I call Comfort Memories from childhood, yes, but I was paying very clear attention to how I felt today as I drew, filled in with color, defined with shading and lines. I sat and reflected on the finished design and was entranced. This process of creating, to anyone who has an artistic nature, becomes a form of meditation. The finished mandala itself, although dashed off quickly to satisfy that sudden creative urge, suprised me. I could see that if I set aside more time and invested more attention and care, I could produce something worthy of being framed or reproduced. It reminded me that I don't give enough voice to this side of my artistic nature. Beyond these absentminded musings, what truly captured my attention were the resultant chills that I felt while gazing at my finished sketch.

Photo courtesy
of flikr.com

As I looked at this intricate wheel of shapes, gradations of color and texture, I found it extremely pleasing to my eye and shivers danced along my arms and legs. This is key! Have you ever noticed when you experience a moment of pure inspiration, pure beauty, music, pure love or anything else that is crystalline in purity....you're assailed by chills? This is your Soul recognizing a Divine moment, I believe. I suggest that these shivers are the result of our physical bodies being bathed in a higher, more pure energy and it is a blissful experience that can be extended and amplified if we take time to recognize it for what it is. Quite often, it doesn't even occur to us that we can actually extend that wonderful feeling.

Once that first shard of Light is recognized, the rest is a much easier walk for us. Focusing on those happy moments invites more of the same energy to be attracted to us, and we begin to pay more attention to those moments that evoke chills.

Photo courtesy
of ehow.com

Are you familiar with the concept of speaking and/or writing affirmations? These are simple statements that are positive in content. They don't have to be long and involved; indeed, the shorter and more concise, the easier the whole process becomes. There are endless books on the market that teach what I am talking about, so I will not take time to list endless references. If you are interested in learning more, the concept of daily affirmations can be typed into any online search engine. I have incorporated this practice into my life for years, but admit that I'm as guilty as the next person about becoming lazy here and there. When I do get serious about this process, it is astonishing how powerful a method it can be. I recently ran across a suggestion from a friend to repeat a positive affirmation aloud ten times, and repeat this process at least twice a day for several days. Okay, I thought, that's pretty simple.

Photo courtesy
of Bing images

I began to do this, choosing one simple statement that was easy to remember and that wasn't necessary to write down. I could recall it with ease and speak it those ten times throughout the day with no trouble. What I found intriguing was that usually by the fifth utterance, I would feel the need to yawn. Another key point! Bear with me, because I have an unusual correlation to offer. Yawning seems to also be a sign of unusual demand on our mind/spirit. If you take a moment to reflect, at a simple glance, we yawn when we're tired. Scientists can't completely explain the reasons for yawning, although I've read many suggestions that it is a primal response triggered by our adrenal system. Stay with me...I'm weaving this together!

Photo courtesy of
http://www.thebrainwizard.com/

Have you ever noticed when you're in the gym, lifting free weights and really challenging your body, you'll get hit with the urge to yawn? Exercise physiologists, like scientists and medical researchers, haven't figured out the true reason behind this reaction, but suggest it is a primal reflex within the pineal gland to pull in more oxygen as the physical body is subjected to new demands. It took me a while to correlate these two thoughts, but the fact that I kept yawning right slap in the midst of ten utterances of a single positive affirmation struck me as clear evidence that my spiritual self was being subjected to a new energetic demand. The pineal gland also governs a great deal of spiritual energy, so I find it plausible that this yawning reflex was telling me I was consciously lifting my own energy field.

This makes sense to me. It might not to anyone else, and that's okay. I've said many times before that the world would be a very boring place if we were all cookie cutter images of one another, with no new thoughts to be shared. Feeling happy is of primary importance every single day of our respective lives. We each deserve happiness, and it is up to us as individuals to pursue actions that will manifest that happiness. What I recognized by the simple act of sketching a mandala, and speaking affirmations aloud, was that I was smiling as a result! My Spirit was responding to these loving acts I was giving myself and I felt a tangible lightness affecting my physical body and my emotional state of being. It was moments of bright happiness that I could feel washing over me.

Photo courtesy of
Bing images

Recognizing the hints from God/Universe that we're on the right path is so important! Don't discount those moments when shivers hit you. Don't ignore those moments when yawning punctuates a thought of clarity. Don't overlook simple joyfulness - embrace it greedily and with both hands! I was reminded by these two experiences that I should relearn the process of being good to myself, exclusively. The unspoken message I was feeling was along the lines of finally paying as much attention to myself as I dole out without hesitation to others. It was, in essence, a very clear mirror that was held up to my face. It was a gentle reminder to embrace and claim personal happiness. And the result was that I was hit with shivers. I paid attention!!!

Yesterday, a dear friend sent me a song that he has sent before to lift my spirits. I was assailed, this time, not just with shivers, but with tears. It was such a sweet, thoughtful gesture from a very manly man, made more precious for the fact that he extended himself in what we both now call 'an awkward tender moment'. In so doing, he also made me laugh out loud. Each time I watched the video attached to the song, shivers continue to hit....the lyrics of the song were so apropo to what I've been going through. And the message inherent in the song was that I am loved and cared for.

Tonight, before tapping out this blog article, I ran through a couple of my spoken affirmations, counting to ten with each string of them uttered....and smiling as each time I reached the fifth repetition, the urge to yawn would become irresistible. Shivers, yawns, the lyrics of a song, and true friendship all culminate to show me that I'm doing okay. All is well; friendships and family ties are solid in my life, showering me with blessings. As I write these words, more shivers dance along my arms and legs.

Photo courtesy of
http://www.fcgov.com/

It is now that I close with the simple equation that:

Shivers + Yawns = Growth!

It is a simple, yet complex equation that I doubt mathematical minds such as Pythagoras and Archimedes would spend precious time and ink to quantify. It is my own peculiar equation and it makes complete spiritual sense to me. A Dawnesian equation that lets me know that life is good; positive energy is flowing and the Light is blazing brightly. As you go forward in your day, pay attention to those shivers and yawns...and remember...they could very well be a small, quiet voice telling you that you, also, are doing okay....and you're growing!
________________________________
If you enjoyed this blog and would like to read more, you can find me at Healing Morning blog.

When we were kids...

When we were kids

We did not have

Games simulating the outdoors

Indoors.

.....

When we were kids

We did not have

Barney to entertain us

So we would eat.

.....

When we were kids

We did not have

Every facet of our life

Visually cataloged.

.....

When we were kids

We did not wear

Helmets and knee protectors

When riding our bicycles.

.....

When we were kids

We did not eat

Fries with tomato ketchup

And ice cream.

.....

When we were kids

We did not have a

Schedule for playing, eating, singing, dancing

And everything in between.

.....

When we were kids

We did not talk back

To our parents

Or question their directives.

.....

When we were kids

We did not have

Cell phones to text with

During family dinners.

.....

When we were kids

We did not need

Hallmark-created days

To appreciate those who mattered.

.....

When we were kids

We did not strain our eyes

On the computer, the television,

Or a gaming console.

.....

When we were kids

We did not go on

Planned trips to

Exotic locations.

.....

When we were kids

We did not shut the world out

With earphones

Attached to nifty iPods.

.....

When we were kids

We did not invite the world in

Via tweets and

Status updates.

.....

When we were kids

We led a simpler life

One with less stress

And even lesser external stimuli.

.....

When we were kids

We were happy

With one TV channel

And a shared home-cooked meal.

.....

When we were kids

We found contentment

In little things

Like building twig castles.

.....

When we were kids

We played until late in the evening

Unchaperoned and

Fearless.

.....

When we were kids

We waited for hand-me-downs

With excitement and

A sense of gratitude.

.....

When we were kids

We lived like kids

Uninhibited and

Innocent.

.....

When we were kids

We were just that --

KIDS!

Not little adults.

Also posted on my blog.

Bird by Bird

I am an impatient writer. The rush to adequately express my thoughts makes me uncomfortable. You see I have a lot to explain and I don’t care to take the time to carefully spell it all out (insert sigh here). I am well aware that I owe it to my reader(s) to make their journey from one scintillating point to the next more of a tip toe through the tulips than a murderous leap.

I hate to read the murderous leap stuff almost as much as I hate to write the other.
So it’s time for a change. I need a new perspective much like the one I implemented to help me pass 3 years of statistics.

I realised that there were problems in my statistics future because while I languished in the bookshop queue with new stats book in hand I instantly regressed to my 17 and a half year old self. As I flicked the text open to a random page I was instantly transported to one of the perfect rows of individual desk islands set up in readiness for my final mathematics exam. The desk islands' sea was an enormous hall where I had sat through many achingly boring assemblies and school plays. My eyes caressed the exact spot where I danced at the formal with my sweetheart.

In contrast to that fun night the hall was now full of quiet. Pens, pencils and erasers were carefully lined up on each desk along with the examination slip, a bottle of water, and for those who insisted that they had a sore throat, (yeah right!) a pack of Butter Menthols. The only sound was a chorus of bitten fingernails drumming away as Sr. Fancy made her way down the aisles licking her thumbs and distributing the exam papers. Each exam paper was firmly placed face down on each desk. Each paper in danger of bursting into flames with the heat of each set of eyes as they attempted to reveal what lay within. Finally the command was issued: Girls, you may commence. There will be no writing for 10 minutes in which time you must read through the paper carefully….

Within a nanosecond there was the deafening sound of over 100 papers turning, pages flipping and a solitary stifled laugh. Mine. For within two nanoseconds came my appreciation of the simple fact that there was no way I could pass because I was crap at maths.
Back in the bookshop queue I reexperience the feeling that I am hopeless in the face of all numbers. I want to run off screaming, but I stay with it. Instead I pay for my book and then I turn on my heel and make my way from the campus book shop to the library. At the catalogue terminal I enter the word "statistics". Fourteen hundred and twenty six entries spring up along with a little bit of my lunch. I scroll through them slowly my eyes glazing over at the titles of these books ( The annals of statistics, applied statistics, computational statistics..). One catches my eye on the 157th page. It says "What is mathematics anyway?" By Reuben Hersh. Yeah, good question! I mutter to myself as I record the call number. I wonder off to the library's southern corridor in search of the book. I find it. It is an unassuming paperback with a very vivid cover. I flick it open and read.

After 10 minutes I am saved. You see depite the fact that everyone agrees that mathematical statements are true the author argues that any certainty is simply a mistake. You see regardless of our ideals, mathematics is done by fallible people, it is a human activity and mathematical truths are uncertain like any other truths. And it is now that I know that mathematics is a game. The numbers do not mean anything really. Mathematics is not an exclusive club for brainy people. It does not reside on the lofty, difficult to access, dusty top shelf. It is just a bit of fun.
My maths avoidance has been cured just like that. I can do statistics. I can do it and I might actually enjoy it. Right there in the library stacks I give myself permission to do so and what follows is 3 enjoyable years of statistics. My marks are fabulous. I enjoy every minute of it. I have been set free.

It is about 10 years later that Anne Lamott's book- "Bird by Bird: some instructions on writing and life" delivers a "What is mathematics really?" type cure for impatient writing.

In her fabulous book Anne explains:

"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brothers shoulder, and said, Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

It is my solemn vow after reading Anne's helpful book to write a shitty first draft of everything. To write it all. To include all the details needed to connect the dots. To follow all the little paths that lead the reader through the tulips. To stop and smell the roses along the way.

My patience will come from just writing the next little bit, and not thinking about the hugeness of the task ahead.


Just like that I give myself permission to be a patient writer.

Trust no One?

Oasis Reflection: On Trust During Troubled Times
(Re-posted from Oasis Writing Link)

David: Why do people do such terrible things?
Sophie: Like what?
David: Like beat people, and kill them, and make them prisoners.
Sophie: Most people don’t do that, David.
David: My friend Johannes always used to tell me, "Trust no one."
Sophie: Oh, life wouldn’t be worth living if you did that, David. You can be cautious, but you have to let people in.
David: How do you know if they’re bad or not?
Sophie: David, most people are good. They have families and friends, and they just want to live their lives as happily as they can. Oh there will always be bad people in this world and you will usually know them when you meet them, but sometimes you won’t. But you can’t let that stop you from living your life fully and freely. And making friends and seeing the goodness in people because if you can’t do that you will never find any happiness.

I am David (film)

Do you ever wonder how you can trust again after a difficult experience? I admit that I struggle with this one. Sometimes I think I'm a bit like the 12 year old David in the quote above. He was taken by himself to a Bulgarian concentration camp when he was young because of his family's political beliefs. Growing up away from his family in a lackluster environment surrounded by guards who are quick to administer punishment changes the way he interacts with people. He forgets how to smile. When unexpectedly he is given a chance to escape, he sets off on a journey across Europe to Denmark carrying important secret papers which later turn out to be his personal identification and the information needed to reunite him with his mother.

The story is compelling to me, but it is his interaction with Sophie, the Swiss woman who helps him to get in touch with his mother that is most compelling to me. She is played by Joan Plowright, a favorite English actress who plays a similar role, Mary who takes care of Luca Innocenti, in Tea with Mussolini. Both Sophie and Mary are exactly the kind of people I admire. In both of these roles, we meet creative, self-sufficient yet engaged with others woman; these women are not afraid to reach out when help is needed. Admittedly, I like Joan Plowright best in Enchanted April, where she plays Mrs. Fisher, a woman whose feelings have contracted so much that she has lost the ability to feel compassion for others, but then her time in Italy thaws the her heart and she realizes the importance of yielding to creative impulses and allowing connection with others. (photos from Facebook fan page)

Why am I pulled toward this type of character? I think I have to continually learn the trust lesson. I imagine myself sitting down and discussing life over a cup of Earl Grey tea with a wise woman like Sophie. If I let my imagination go further, I can envision that I might be a woman like Sophie in the future...and maybe a little now. However, at the moment, I'm feeling more like David-cut off and fighting with my own emotional demons- I'm particularly battling with trust issues.

Perhaps you know that my own mother was murdered by a neighbor. (I have told the story before-just click the link.) I don't know if you realize how perplexing it is to that young person who resides in me -ever an innocenti- who cannot comprehend how someone familiar and well-known-a lifelong neighbor- could do something so drastically cruel.

You read about people- this past weekend in Puerto Rico, for example- who kill their own spouse or family, and then turn the gun back on themselves. It seems like such a foreign experience. You never think you will have to confront that type of situation with anyone you personally know.

I have never been able to connect the act of murder with the known person who was my neighbor.

Factually, I know he did it. I've looked at him in photographs and in court but it never made sense to me. I think about his behavior more as a symptom of society's sickness and lack of tolerance for others differences. I have to make myself remember that it was his hand that pulled the trigger. It was Jim Brooks who killed my mother and her partner, Christine.

No, even after writing that statement, it still feels remote.

While viewing I am David, I allow myself to feel upset. After the movie, I watch an episode of Friends and found it extremely amusing. I laughed out loud. I felt freer somehow and more open to all emotions. I know it is important to feel. I also know that trying not to feel leads to depression. Did you know that when you have trouble, it often acts like a trigger for a cluster of repressed feelings, and there are some things that you just don't want to remember. Noticing myself going through this emotional roller coaster made me realize that I need to remember to feel and allow myself to trust people again.

Sophie is right, "...there will always be bad people in this world and you will usually know them when you meet them, but sometimes you won’t. But you can’t let that stop you from living your life fully and freely. And making friends and seeing the goodness in people because if you can’t do that you will never find any happiness." I'll take that wise-woman's advice!

The Memo

I stood outside and watched wispy white clouds finger paint the blue sky. It was a warm, but still a beautiful day and the sun was quite playful. That was then-this afternoon. Now, just two hours later the evergreen trees are dancing to music with a rolling drum beat like a tympani approaching the peak of the crescendo. The sky is dark, the sun hidden behind the storm clouds and a tornado warning has been issued. An over exuberant wispy cloud must have knocked over all the finger paints and they have spilled across the sky creating a most unusual color. The evergreen trees are now black silhouettes, almost like skeletons with long spindly arms extending towards each other in their dance. The squirrels have left the bird feeder. Uh, did I miss a memo? Did someone change the channel with the remote when I was not looking, leaving me puzzled trying to figure out who these characters are and what do they have to do with my movie?

There is no danger but like a child with grand plans for the day, standing and looking out the window dripping with rain, I feel miffed. My thoughts, caught in the wind currents, roll across each other like the clouds. Look at the monitor then the trees and back to the monitor. I have headphones on and it occurs to me that the trees are dancing in rhythm with the music playing. Nature is playing, a bit rough, but is having quite the time this evening.

Part 2

There are lyrics to songs I truly get lost in but because of the music around the lyrics I am unable to enjoy their genius. Nature and seasons have a rhythm. No matter what they bring, there is a rhythm to them. I believe that. Like the music, sometimes the lyrics of nature’s frolicking have a rhythm that makes it difficult to dance or sing. Tornadoes have left destruction and death. What had been a very surreal moment watching the storms come in, quickly changed as sirens blared their danger for almost two hours.

So how does one reconcile the before and after photographs in your mind? You cannot ignore the destruction. It happened. Sometimes its unavoidable. You cannot, however, ignore the beauty of the dance before, the splendor of the visual display during and the calming colors when the storm passed. Somehow, we have to find the rhythm and the lyrics and not forsake one for the other. To remember the rhythm of the seasons. And maybe that’s the memo.

Clearing away clutter.

One of the easiest ways to get organized and to clear away clutter is by taking out the trash. If you want to start organizing and clearing away clutter, start by clearing away what you know is trash: junk mail, flyers left on your door or mailbox, empty food and/or drink containers, empty boxes from mailed or bought items, empty grocery bags, dry cleaning plastic, old magazines, etc.

As you clear these items away, you might want to consider how you can cut down on some of this type of trash that enters your life. Perhaps removing yourself from catalog mailing lists and investing in reusable grocery bags could be a start. Then as you sift through and release this trash, start identifying other items in cupboards, drawers, and the refrigerator that can be considered trash and remove these items. Start on one element at a time.

Then as you move through the process, move to larger projects; for instance, closets, attic, garage, basement, and rooms. Start with trash first and be honest with your items. Unless they are holiday items being stored yearly for holiday usage, if you have something stuck away that hasn't been used for a year or more, it is most likely trash, or at least something to donate.

Often just by going through and removing trash that we hang onto in our lives we can make a huge leap in getting organized, and the removal of the trash that clutters our environment can go a long way in clearing the clutter of our minds.

This is just a beginning step and a metaphor for clearing out the clutter of one's life. What is cluttering your life? What steps can you take to clear out the trash, cut back on allowing trash to enter your life, and clean up your environment, your mind, your body, and your spirit?

I Hate Housework!

It's tedious, monotonous and infinite! I resent the fact that Hagar doesn't do as much as me and has somehow managed to morph a relationship founded on equality to one of segregated conjugal roles! How did this happen? At the same time, I know that I lead a privileged existance and inside my soul I should be pleased to serve my family and create the nest that they all need to function to the optimum. Yet, I can't help it - it really pisses me off that it's me that has to be the slave!

My gran, Betty, was the guiding light of my life. She was one of 14 children. She grew up in a country village near Peterborough. My great-grandfather was a drunk, and had drank, and gambled, his father's fotune away. Gran lived in a tumbled down cottage, she and her siblings would have to collect the family's water from a pump in the middle of the village square. At 14, she left home and moved to Coventry to live in lodgings with her sister Pearl. She worked as a secretary to an army officer.

At 16 she met my grandfather, Ginge, (a redhead - the clue is in the nickname), he had been dragged up working on the docks in York. His father was murdered with a dockers claw for his wage packet. He slept rough around York docks until he was 15. When the war came he was called up and enlisted to the RAF as a rear gunner. According to my very uncharitable father, he was a big boozer and spent most of the war in the brig for drinking offences, hence the reason he managed to survive a role, where death was almost guaranteed.

After the war, Ginge and Betty married, and moved to York, where they were issued a council house at 49 Tenent Road. This is where they lived until they both died. They had four children. My mother was one of them. She was the eldest and born in 1947. Life at 49, as it was always known through my raising, was pretty turbulent. Gran and grandad had come from nothing and they had nothing. The house was furnished with filth, orange boxes and love. Grandad was now working at Rowntrees Macintosh as a painter and decorator; a job he held until he retired at the age of 60. Ginge was a drinker - he loved his booze. He could open his throat and pour the amber nectar down his neck in voluminous quantities. His greatest achievement was that he could drink a pint in under 5 seconds.

He could be found in The White Rose most nights, drinking and playing dominos. My mum quite often would have to pull him, and his bike, out of the hedge in the morning and make sure he got to work on time. Betty kept the home fires burning, stoically and cheerfully - held together by tots of brandy and many fags. He was a womaniser as well. When Ginge's fancy women would turn up at the back door, gran would shriek, "Gin-ner! There's a women here, says you are leaving me. Are you going?'

"No Bette," would be the sheepish response.

"Did you hear that?" Gran would spit at the doorstep daliance.

"Now sling yer hook."

Betty's darkest day was when my mother committed suicide at the age of 26. She could never speak of it. She put it in a secure vault and buried her grief deep inside her soul, never to be unlocked. In fact it took until I was 18 years old before she could put a photo of my mum, amongst the collection of family memoribilia, framed and set amidst the vast array of porcelain birds.

Through this rollercoaster of a life, my gran served her family and her grandkids and others as well. She cleaned, washed and ironed - singing terribly, crooning. She fed every stray dog and child in Tenent Road. Many kids sought refuge from life at Betty's house. You would never know who would be living there and for how long. She couldn't bear to see a child in pain.

She worked as a barmaid in The Mania Bar at York Station Hotel. She was straight out of Andy Cap - lacquered blonde hair, bright pink, powder and paint, back skirt, white shirt, with an ample cleavage and killer patent leather heels. How she worked shifts in these shoes, I have no idea. On day shifts, she would sneak me in and hide me from the management. Whenever, the bosses came down I would scuttle behind the crisp boxes, under the bar and wait for them to leave. My reward for silence and stillness was 10p for the fruit machine, that would often multiply magically into a £1.

All she did was work, smoke, sing, dance and celebrate life. She waited on all of us. She said she was born to serve. 'You come to my house to relax', she would say to me. She was proud to serve her family. Her house was a real refuge. My refuge. I called it the 'bosum'. The bosum of Betty.

Betty Smith

Like a shining star,
A blooming flower,
Early morning and a face that is sour.

She can be bright and gay,
Like a sunny day.
She has a twinkle in her eye
And a sparkle in her smile.

She is loaded with love,
She is armed with style.

With a life full of pain,
It is from her that I gain,
That at the end of the day,
When it is all said and done
And push comes to shove
There is no one like Betty
She defines the word love.

I think of my gran and the spirit she inspired me within me. I give myself a little pep talk. I am blessed to have such a wonderful gift with my life, two gorgeous children, the handsome Hagar, a beautiful nest to raise my kids and yet no matter how much I try I still can't help hating housework!!! It's so boring and pointless!!! When Hagar comes home and I have cooked a fabulous home-cooked meal, with fresh ingredients, from scratch, and then I end up doing the washing up, and putting the kids to bed as well. The nagging 'I am not born to serve' battle unleashes itself. I blame Thatcher! She was a false icon - she had staff and a millionaire husband! I need me some of those. It's no good, I can't help it - I hate housework. Right, that said I have to go and make the beds. The battle continues on.......

"Someday I’m going to do and say everything I want to do and say, and if people don’t like it I don’t care." - Scarlett O'Hara


First written by me at my new blog:

http://amodernmilitarymother.wordpress.com/